Ordinary person, extraordinary moment
It was out west, in Salt Lake City, maybe, or Denver or Albuquerque. I passed through them all in 1975. My long dark hair sparkled in the sunlight as I sipped wine in a cafe. A handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes sat down next to me, asked me to leave with him. I refused, said I was waiting for someone. He tensed up, inched closer. Repulsed, I rushed to the bathroom. Years later, before his execution, I recognized Ted Bundy on TV. He especially liked women with straight, dark hair, parted down the middle, just like mine.
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